


You Are In My Blood

by MooseFeels



Series: twitter decisions [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Science Fiction, The Fifth Element - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: Viktor's a vet. Yuuri's a pefect being. They save the universe from a cosmic evil that pops up every five thousand or so years.





	You Are In My Blood

**Author's Note:**

> @Savi_yoi: "last scene of the fifth element but it's victor and yuuri in a box"  
> me: time to make bad decisions kids   
> (there might be more of this but not for a While)

He doesn’t remember everything, he just remembers lots of things. He doesn’t remember being born the first time. It doesn’t prepare him for what it’s like the second.

Everything is suddenly very, very bright. There’s so much  _ light _ , so much information, and it crashes against him. There’s light and there’s  _ heat _ , dry and suffocating, scraping against him. Scraping against the shaking, pinkish flesh that suddenly constitutes him. 

This is  _ new _ and it’s  _ terrifying _ , and there’s a rushing, painful feeling in him and then something  _ else _ hurts. There’s sound, there’s so much _ sound _ . There’s something buzzing and there’s another sound, high and sharp, like the klaxon in the ship before crashing and then there’s something else--  _ screaming _ , there’s screaming, and he realizes it’s  _ him _ . 

It’s him, it’s  _ him _ , it’s  _ him _ . All of this, this shaking thing swimming in his vision, this is him. 

He throws himself backward, to shudder against the hard glass of the tube he’s encased in, new body strangely scraping and sliding against the thinly-padded material of this thing he’s in. Like a ship but different. No controls in here visible to him, to his touch, to his control. 

It’s all so much. 

He feels it tumbling out of him--  _ help me, help me, please-- help me get to the priest, we have to get the stones, we have to stop it, it’s coming, it’s coming _ \-- but there’s a tone and a voice cuts in. 

“Now then,” someone says. They sounds smug.

Someone struts up to the enclosure-- the womb, he guesses. Human. Dark hair and pinkish skin, like his new skin but different. Tall and muscular, wearing something khaki and official looking. He knows the word for this. 

“If you want to get out,” the stranger says, swinging something. “You’ll need this. And if you want this, you’ll need to work on your  _ people skill _ s.”

He clambers, through this space to pull in close to the glass. He notices the smug smile. He notices the swinging card on the chain. Sees the slot it belong in. 

And he sees his own reflection. 

_ Himself _ , now, he supposes. 

Dark hair. Wide, brown eyes, caught round and betraying the sudden, roiling anxiety trapped in his gut. Body built through a little smaller than this stranger’s. But he feels it in his own arms, his own bones, his own flesh; new thought it may be, this is strong.

He is strong.

The glass shatters roundly, easily. The strangers grip on the card is strong enough that when he pulls him forward, he knocks  _ hard _ against the glass. Hard enough to knock him out. And then it’s just a matter of inserting the card in the slot and slamming the red button. Red buttons are pretty universal, he supposes. The enclosure slides open.

The dive through the wall and into the ventilation is easy. 

He’s so cold. They’ve wrapped him in something awful-- white bandages that stretch over his hips and chest and shoulders and nothing else. He wraps his hands over his arms and runs through the shaft before it comes to an opening.

And he’s not ready. 

It’s so different here. It’s so enormous and so  _ loud _ . There’s the incredible rush of  _ everythingness _ that sweeps over him. Falls into him. There’s the way the buildings stretch up and up and up; all too high. There’s the crashing volume of all the vehicles. There’s the thundering wave of every siren, every voice, every heartbeat. There’s the lights, the windows. 

There’s another voice, a new one.

He turns, and there’s someone in the tunnel. Someone  _ armed _ . 

There’s nowhere to go. 

So he takes a breath and he does the only thing he can. 

He jumps.

* * *

 

The alarm goes off, and then the rest of the apartment turns on.

First there’s the lights that go on, and then there’s the television that switches on, and the shower slides down, the kitchen disappearing. His phone starts ringing. And of course, Makka wakes up too, barking loudly at the door. 

Viktor sits up; digs his palms into his eyes and takes a breath, or tries to. 

“Alright,” he says. “Hey, hey, hey--  _ I’m up!” _

He gets up from the bed, which slides under to the automatic function and opens his door. Makka knows to run to the green space to take care of her business while Viktor makes her breakfast. 

Viktor opens the fridge-- there’s a can of her food in there, a pitcher of tea, and nothing else. He sighs and opens the dog food. Takes the lid off and drinks the tea right out of the pitcher.

There’s five cigarettes in the dispenser. Their filters are cruelly long.

Viktor sighs and takes on out. 

Lights it and finally answers his phone. 

“Vitya,” his mentor growls on the other end.

“Yakov,” he answers. 

“Vitya, when will you come back to the garage and let me  _ finally _ put you back in a ship like you belong?” 

“Yakov,” Viktor sighs. “I don’t do that anymore. I retired.”

“For all the good it did you, foolish boy,” Yakov murmurs. “You were so talented- come back. I know you must not have many points on your license.”   
“I have enough,” Viktor says. 

“I know you lie, Vitya,” Yakov replies. “Come back-- you were so  _ decorated--” _

“I’m not a killer,” Viktor says, and he hangs up, before Yakov can refute it. Before he can refute it anymore than the shelf of military medals do already. 

Viktor opens his door again and Makka trots back in. Sets herself in front of the television.

“That stuff will rot your brain, my precious girl,” Viktor says over the loud screeching of it. He keeps it on, so she won’t get lonely while he’s at work. 

His cab is a piece of shit. It’s a beater, older than shit, and the nav is obnoxious and unprogrammable at this point. The grav is crotchety and the interior is a war crime, baked with the scent of body odor and cigarette smoke. But it’s also the only thing Viktor owns. The only thing he can call his own, and that affords it a frankly ridiculous amount of love. 

He climbs into the cockpit and pulls out of the garage and into the city and barely five minutes on the job when something crashes through his roof.

“Jesus!” He exclaims, and pulls from the lane to the side and looks in the backseat, assessing the damage and--

Someone’s there. 

“Oh,” Viktor says. “Oh-- are you alright?”   
He looks at him with an expression Viktor can’t quite read. Dark brown eyes and short hair and round, beautiful features. Round cheeks. Round mouth. 

He looks at Viktor for such a long moment before his face pulls into a strange, goofy sort of grin. 

“Hi,” he says. His accent is unplaceable and strange. 

“Hi,” Viktor replies, dazed. “Are you alright?”

And then there’s a rush, a torrent of words and gestures that Viktor can’t follow. Viktor speaks six languages, one of them from beyond Earth, and he’s never heard anything like this, especially from a human mouth. But he keeps speaking before his two hands  _ smack! _ Together and he cries, “Boom!”

Viktor gestures about the cab. “Yes!” He says. “Big boom! Bada bing, bada boom!” It’s the stupidest thing he’s ever said.

The stranger smiles, though. “Big bada boom! Bada  _ big _ boom!”

Viktor wants to kiss him. He also wants to get him seriously evaluated for brain damage. 

And then there are police sirens and two cruisers pull to the sides of the cab. An officer comes onto his comm. 

“You are holding a dangerous fugitive. Please cooperate and no one will get hurt.”

Viktor looks at the passenger. “You are in trouble with the law?” He asks. 

The stranger just looks struck. Terrified. 

He’s nearly naked. 

The  _ clink _ of the carabiner clipping to his interior tether is loud. Viktor doesn’t remember opening the door, but he knows he must have. 

He doesn’t want to. 

The passenger scrambles to the other side of the cabin. He looks panicked. 

“I’m sorry,” Viktor says. It sounds hollow to his own ears.

“ _ Please,” _ the passenger says, suddenly. His voice is small. His accent is nearly nasal. Sharp. “ _ Please. Help.” _

And he says it so earnestly. So painfully.

He’s nearly naked. He’s beautiful. He’s clearly in some sort of trouble.

Viktor’s throat is dry as he swallows. 

“Yakov is going to  _ kill _ me,” he murmurs, and the police towline snaps before the carabiner gives. The door doesn’t shut all the way around the long rope that flutters behind him like a flag. 

He looks up in his rearview, and catches the stranger’s brown eyes watery with tears. Smiling. 

Viktor only speaks six languages, but he knows that  _ thank you _ looks about the same in all of them. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. 

He tears through the city, the police in pursuit, but the passenger still with him. 

Viktor figures he can live with Yakov being furious with him. 


End file.
